Arcadia, OK
She had no idea.
No idea what it would feel like to have someone whisper words of love into your skin, to have them intertwine their body with yours so inextricably that you couldn't figure out where either of you ended or began; that it could be so all-consuming, so profound. Every kiss, every touch…so rich and ripe and full-bodied, spilling through your bloodstream, sinking into your veins, and soaking your soul.
She's never felt this special; this adored; this loved.
But now she knows—that this is how it's supposed to be. And she'll never be the same again.
She's forever changed.
Forever ruined.
The loud tap, tap, tap of pelting rainfall wakes her.
She blearily reaches for Castle's discarded watch on the car floor, squinting at it in the pale gray morning light and…it's just after six a.m.? They had finally drifted off a couple hours ago, warm and sated and deliciously entangled, but now, as her body gradually pinpricks with awareness, she realizes how awkwardly she's draped over him, how cramped it is, and oh, she's really, really sore. Wonderfully and exquisitely sore. But oh so very sore. She shifts and accidentally knees the writer in the stomach.
Shit.
He grunts, stirring slightly beneath her.
"Hmm. Don't get up yet," he murmurs, unconsciously roping an arm around her waist and tethering her against him. And for a brief moment, she takes him in, admiring the hair sticking up adorably in every direction, the strong edge of his jawbone, the scar dimpled on his chin. She wonders how he got it…but now is not the time to idle in her thoughts.
"Castle," she hisses softly.
His eyes open in a hazy flutter and a dreamy smile stretches over his face.
"Kate. Hi," he rasps, his voice, throaty with sex and sleep, and she wishes it didn't send arrows of heat to her core. They need to get up, not get it on.
"Castle," she chirps, more insistent. Louder. The tips of her fingers, lightly patting his cheek.
He blinks. "What?"
"It's raining and our stuff outside is getting wet," she explains.
He glances toward the window, sees the pound of water against the glass; the rivulets that run down it. Then, back at her. "We can attend to that in a minute." He tucks strands of her wavy, sex-tousled hair behind her ear. "First, there's something else I'd like to attend to."
And then the writer flips them. Or well, he tries to. He miscalculates and overshoots the turn of his body and ends up pitching them both into the space usually reserved for legroom. He crashes onto the flat of his back, and she, onto his chest, elbows and knees colliding at odd angles and blankets contorting around them as they unceremoniously squash together in the tight gap, breath whooshing from lungs in oofs, oomphs, and ows.
There's a particularly loud ow from the writer when he bonks his head and he stares up at her in a confused daze. She imagines cartoon birds flying over him.
"That wasn't very smooth, was it?" he groans.
Partially laughing; partially concerned, she un-squishes an arm and reaches out to cradle his skull in her palm.
"You okay, babe?"
He slowly comes out of his pain-induced stupor, a sweet smile flirting over his mouth.
"Did you just call me babe?"
"Ooo, did I?"
His smile rises to meet hers and he hums affirmatively into her. Oh, he likes that. And shit, just a small kiss and her skin is sparking with electricity, arousal revving hot and fast, every nerve-ending sensitized to him—each caress of his lips, stroke of his tongue, scrape of his teeth, jumpstarting her and kicking her engine into gear. (Great, now he has her thinking in car metaphors).
He pulls away suddenly. "You know what this means, right?"
She lifts an eyebrow.
"You've officially opened the door to terms of endearment," he elaborates.
"Oh, no," she mock-groans. "Is there any way I can shut it?"
"Too late, Cupcake. There's no going back now."
She grins, too in love to even pretend to be annoyed.
Yeah.
There is no going back now, is there?
"Here."
She hands him the Superman shirt, boxer shorts, and socks he lent to her the other night in Santa Fe. His duffel was stuck in the trunk and he needed something to wear, so she'd fished the items out of her saddlebag.
"Oh my god, you totally stole these."
"Borrowed," she corrects, yanking on her ratty sneakers, still carrying red dust from the Grand Canyon. She'd also thrown on her athletic shorts and oversized purple sleep shirt and corralled her unruly hair into a messy pony.
And then she's climbing over the front seats, pushing out the passenger side door, and dashing outside. He follows her soon after and they work on rolling up the unused and drenched sleeping pads, disassembling the tent, and gathering mugs, marshmallow skewers, lanterns, and discarded clothes. The writer slips on his water-logged Nikes and they drag everything to the trunk where she clears an area and he lays down a fresh tarp before they dump it all inside.
She slams the trunk closed and is about to dash back to the cover of the car when he snags her by the waist.
"Wait, wait, wait."
His mouth pours over hers, hot, wet, and insistent.
Oh, fuck.
She moans, a familiar need coiling tightly inside her, and she claws at his back, pressing herself closer, yearning for more, the warm summer rain and heavy heat of his body, escalating the frenzy of her skyrocketing desire. She loves his broad chest and the way his arms engulf her frame. How he kisses her like it's the first time.
And like the first time, her legs automatically hike up over his hips, while his hands immediately hook under her thighs, hauling her against him. It's so confoundingly seamless, so infuriatingly in-sync—how they align with each other; effortlessly fit together. She's never had this with anyone else. This thrilling dance. This insatiable burn. Fire and electricity and something deep and cosmic and undefinable.
Magic.
She blooms open for him and his tongue slides past the seam of her lips. And really, they need to stop. But she doesn't know how, too addicted, too high on the touch and taste and feel of him, a sweet and warm viscous honey flowing through her, overriding her senses and enveloping her heart.
A flash of lightning cracks between the stormy clouds above them and thunder booms. The sound jolts them apart and the writer stumbles and trips, losing all equilibrium. They topple to the ground in a jumble of arms and legs, landing in a muddy puddle with a loud, squelching splat.
Once the initial shock dissipates and they perform a quick check-up, making sure the other is clear of any new injury (they're both fine), they burst out in delirious laughter. They're splattered in wet dirt and grass, covered in bumps and bruises, and soaked to the bone. But it doesn't matter. She hasn't felt this carefree; this full of joy since she was a kid.
He rolls over her, pinning her down, and tenderly wipes some mud from her cheeks.
"You keep knocking me off balance, Cowgirl."
"Oh, so this is my fault?"
He just grins at her, eyes shining brightly.
"Have I told you you look beautiful this morning?"
She laughs again, loud and full-bellied. Swabs some soil from his nose.
"Not too bad yourself, handsome."
They share a soft, reverent kiss until another bolt of lightning violently ruptures the sky.
"I think that's our cue to leave, Cowboy."
"Oh my stars. You poor things!"
He'd seen the sign for The Lotus Inn Bed & Breakfast barely ten minutes into their drive and they'd resolved to stop. They didn't want to risk getting into any kind of accident, especially when the windshield wipers were barely able to keep up with the pummeling sheets of rain and they definitely didn't want to be struck by lightning. Curse or no curse, they weren't taking any chances.
The place was about a mile down a gravel lane road. A picturesque two-story refurbished farmhouse dripping in lovely purple wisteria flowers. They'd raced to the wide-open veranda, taking shelter beneath the roof awning, and rang the doorbell, muddied and sopping wet.
"Jack, darling? Can you bring some towels, please?" yells the woman who answered the door.
Possibly in her early 70s, he assesses. Her dark, steel gray hair is perfectly styled in a half-updo and soft curls float on her shoulders. She wears a starched white blouse and denim jeans and around her neck, hangs a tie-dyed apron filled with a rainbow of tiny, painted-on handprints and the phrase: the best meals are made with loving hands. As she turns back to them, her light, autumn brown eyes crinkle with warmth and kindness.
"I'm Velma. Welcome to The Lotus."
"Rick," he nods in greeting, looping an arm around his girlfriend. "And this is Kate."
"We're sorry to disturb you so early," Kate says.
He smiles wanly. "And so underdressed." (He really should've grabbed some pants).
"Nonsense. I've seen it all, Sugarpie. And my husband and I are always pretty much up at dawn anyway," Velma explains cheerfully.
"You wouldn't happen to have a room available, would you?" he prods.
"We just had a cancellation because of the surprise storm."
Velma winks.
"Must be your lucky day."
"Yes. Right there."
He pushes his fingers deeper.
"Right here?"
Shit, that feels good. So, so good.
"Oh, God," she moans.
When he'd offered to wash her hair, she'd been a little hesitant. She could wash her own goddamn hair, but he was so sweet and earnest about it, there was no use in denying him.
She just wasn't used to this…giving up control and letting someone else take care of her. She'd spent most of her teenage years fighting for her independence. And the last six months, just fighting to get through the day on her own.
But she's not alone anymore and she doesn't want to be.
He continues to massage her scalp, lathering the shampoo in with such veneration, it makes her heart squeeze painfully, the whole procedure, incredibly intimate. She's never had this, either—this softness. And she's never let herself be so vulnerable with someone else.
She didn't think it was possible to love him more.
He rinses the suds away as steam billows around them.
"All clean," he announces proudly.
"Are you sure?" she says coyly, flicking her gaze down.
He blushes.
"Why, Katherine Beckett. Your mind is absolutely filthy."
She glides a bar of soap over his skin and tracks it south, lowering to her knees, her voice, husky and seductive, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"I think you missed a spot, Sugarpie."
"Oh my god, this tastes amazing."
She shovels another helping of her country potatoes onto her fork. "Babe, you have to try these." She lifts the serving up to him and he closes his mouth over the mix of sautéed bell peppers, caramelized onions, and roasted rosemary potato.
"Mhmm," he moans appreciatively. "You need some of this bacon. It's heaven."
He tears off a piece from the strip in his hand and feeds it to her. The crunch of the crispy fat and grease is delectable. After their shower, Velma had dropped off a breakfast tray that also included fried eggs, thick slabs of toast slathered in homemade raspberry jam, and glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. They were cuddled on the padded bench of the bay window in the Blue Room, a little cafe-style table in front of them.
The Blue Room is a gorgeous renovated space with vintage wood flooring, antique mahogany furniture pieces, and blue flower print wallpaper. Light blue lace curtains gild the windows and a rich royal blue duvet bedecks the queen-sized bed with a simple black wrought iron frame. It's all very stately and refined, but also cozy and warm, the white-painted radiator humming with heat nearby.
Freshly scrubbed and dry, she and Castle smell like eucalyptus and are cocooned in fluffy, white terry-cloth robes. She's snuggled into his side, her head pillowed in the cavern of his collarbone and her legs, scrunched over his lap. She doesn't care if it seems clingy or needy. She likes being able to wipe the jam from the corner of his mouth and kiss him in between bites of food.
It amazes her that after everything they've done to each other (oh, God, the things they've done), it still feels like them. He's still her best friend who she can rib playfully, bicker with, and laugh at.
"You burned the kitchen down trying to make cherries flambé?"
"In my defense, I was eleven and I didn't know cognac could take off like that."
"So this is a burn scar?" she asks, thumbing his chin.
He kisses the whorl of her fingertip. "Yeah. It was also the first time I set fire to my eyebrows."
"First time?"
"Let's just say I don't recommend deep-frying a turkey."
She shakes her head with a laugh.
"You're a born troublemaker, aren't you?"
"Guilty as charged," he chuckles, waggling his eyebrows.
She tilts her head back and pushes her grin into his to sip the joy from his lips.
That's the main difference, she supposes. (And it's the best difference). She doesn't have to fight the urge to kiss him anymore. To hold him. Touch him. Want him.
She can just be with him.
And it's better than ever—a dream come true.
The writer reads from the brochure Velma provided them, giving her an overview of their new location.
Arcadia, Oklahoma has a population of 347. Old, rusty tools of the farm trade litter the side of the highway that runs through it and its main attraction is a round-shaped barn built in the late 1800s. There's also a popular fried chicken shack and a place nearby called Crestview Farms that offers berry-picking and fresh, organic produce. But not much else.
The Lotus is its own rural paradise. In addition to walks in the neighboring forest, picnic lunches in the meadow field, and hikes to a local waterfall, they offer horse-back riding, candle-stick making, and pie-baking lessons. They promote an "unplugged" lifestyle, so there's no cell reception or televisions to watch or computers to log onto. If you need to make a call, a landline will be made available to you.
Castle chatters on about how Arcadia in ancient Greece was considered an idyllic utopia of pastoral peace and was home to Pan, the satyr god of the wild. His brain also jumps to the lotus-eaters from the Odyssey. How they ate the magical pink lotus flower and entered a state of bliss and euphoria; indulged in pleasure rather than practical concerns.
"You know, we've been running flat out for days. Maybe we should stay here for the weekend. What do you think?"
"Mhm, yeah," she murmurs, eyes drooping closed. "Sounds good."
"Am I boring you to sleep?" he jokes.
A faint smile limns her lips. "Wore me out, stud."
His resounding chuckle reverberates throughout his chest.
"Okay if I carry you to bed?"
She nods, too tired and too content to move herself. Her arms encircle his neck and he easily scoops her up in his arms and stands to his feet. She secretly admires the strength of his embrace. The solid wall of him—her gentle giant.
He confidently strides to the bed, removes some of the throw pillows, and pulls back the duvet before carefully depositing her in the middle of the sinfully soft mattress and it's like sinking into a cloud.
She yawns, luxuriously stretching her limbs, and watches half-lidded as he putters around the room, closing curtains and setting the empty breakfast tray outside their door. He also unearths his dream-catcher and tacks it onto a lampshade.
"Is that everything?" he asks.
"Will you get in here already?" she says, impatient.
He grins and slides in next to her, drawing the covers over the both of them.
"Really angling for a cuddle, huh?"
She seals her back to his front and wraps one of his arms around her.
"You owe me," she harrumphs, mock-petulant.
He kisses her nape and nestles her closer, nudging his thigh between hers.
"Anything for you, Sugarpie."
She snorts a soft giggle and sighs a quiet, "I love you."
"Love you, too," he whispers in her ear as she drifts off. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite."
For so long, she'd been drowning. Suffocating. Choking for air. Trapped under the weight of the world.
But now she can breathe again. Her load, lighter. He, her dry land. Her safe haven. A port in the storm.
And finally, finally…
She can rest.
xxx
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, and I really appreciate those who made a point to say how much they enjoyed it. I'd also like to give a special shoutout to the one Guest reviewer who always leaves me the nicest comments. You are the best. Thank you for loving this story so much.
I'll keep writing as long as you all keep wanting more!
Fun Fact: The cherries flambé bit was pulled from the acknowledgement section in Heat Rises.
Disclaimer: Arcadia, OK is a real place, but alas, The Lotus Inn B&B is fake. Jack and Velma are inspired by Joe and Vera from The Blue Butterfly, but I already used their names as a reference back in Chapter 12, so I had to come up with something new. And I know they also go by Jerry and Viola in the show, but those names didn't feel quite right. The vibes were off, as they say.
Coming Up: I believe it's customary with a story of this length to give you a brief overview of what to expect. These next arc of chapters will be more focused on character development, but there will be some major plot developments on the horizon. I don't want to spoil much, but I can say that this road trip will be completed, then we'll pitstop in New York, and finally, end on another road trip. It will be a happy ending, but there will be lots of angst (and also fun) along the way. We've barely scratched the surface of crazy shenanigans and character cameos!
See you next time (in a week or two)—True Blue